


Uncountable Golden Mirrors

by Irrealia



Series: Thorin Works Through His Issues and Deserves Happiness Dammit [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Porn, Canon-Compliant, Dubious Consent, False Accusations, Gold Sickness, Jealousy, M/M, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior, because this is terrible and fucked-up, but I bet dwarves are into it, dark fuck prince Thorin, fucking on a bed of gold, gold sickness clichés, it's just better to not read this unless like me you are just sad and wrong, sorta - Freeform, which doesn't sound comfortable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 09:44:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6112615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrealia/pseuds/Irrealia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> “My heart is full to overflowing, and all that is dear to me is gathered here now, save the Arkenstone….” His eyes went curiously out of focus, remembering the object of his greatest lust. He tore roughly at his own clothes, almost as if he expected the Arkenstone to tumble out of his pockets like a forgotten coin, thus completing his hoard. But no Arkenstone fell from Thorin’s many layers as he divested himself of them, tossing them roughly onto the gold until he knelt before Bilbo naked and pale, spotted, sick, and trembling in the weak sunlight reflected by uncountable golden mirrors.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Bilbo is trying to put the Arkenstone back. Thorin wonders what he's doing in the treasure hoard alone, in the wee hours of the morning. </p><p>Things go downhill from there. </p><p>Please, do not read this if dubious consent triggers you.</p><p>This fic can be read as a canon-compliant stand-alone.<br/>But if you want a slowish, (hopefully) earned fix-it for this fic, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6290716/chapters/14415037">I'm writing the everyone lives AU over here.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncountable Golden Mirrors

A lone figure crept through the treasure hoard of Erebor in the early dawn, his too-big blue jacket clutched tightly around his thinning frame. The pocket of the jacket held a treasure beyond compare; the thief who had taken it was contemplating replacing it. How could Erebor possibly be rebuilt when its king insisted, fever in his eyes, that all the dwarves of his company be put to work searching for a single stone? Worse—how could they deal with the army of refugees from Laketown on the horizon, slowly creeping towards Erebor and Dale?

He would put it somewhere easy to find, and then it would be found, and then maybe they could do _something else_. And so he crept over piles and piles of gold, looking for the perfect spot where the Arkenstone might have been plausibly overlooked before, but could now be easily revealed in all its splendour.

The lone figure was not alone for long.

Thorin son of Thrain, his ears made keen by longing, strode into the great hall of treasure, to see who disturbed it whilst all others were asleep. He made no secret of his entrance, and the way the Burglar startled so dramatically at the sounds he made that he quite fell over on the slippery piles of gold—well, that seemed as good a tell of any of the Burglar’s guilt. Thorin paced over to him on sure feet, driven by the steady pounding of his heart. At last he would learn the fate of the Arkenstone.

When Thorin reached Bilbo, he dragged him upwards violently, grabbing the furred lapels of his jacket. “ _Burglar!_ ” hissed Thorin. “I thought we had come to some understanding, you and I, but it seems you have become in truth what Gandalf named you. Would you steal from me, now, as you sought to steal from the dragon?”

Bilbo, who had already been squirming in Thorin’s grip, now shoved with all his might against his chest in retaliation. Bilbo’s strength, although considerably developed by his adventures, was still no match for that of a dwarf warrior. But surprise gave him aid, and he was soon free of Thorin’s grip and stumbling backwards over the gold, away from his king. When he had put a little distance between them, panting harshly from surprise and fear and exertion, he paused a moment. Then he shucked off his jacket, tossing it away into a corner, so that he was clad only in his shirt and trousers, stretched bracers doing their best to hold his sagging, frayed clothing together decently.

He swallowed, and took a deep breath, then looked at Thorin straight on.

“Thorin, I am loyal to you,” said Bilbo, his words as measured as he could make them. “I have always been loyal to you. But if you suspect me of such treachery, then by all means, Thorin, search me if you must.” He held his arms out to his sides, gesturing up and down along his body with bold and nimble hands.

Thorin gazed at him long and hard, considering Bilbo’s challenge, and his blue eyes seeming to glow with some inner fire in the dim light. Then he advanced towards Bilbo, slowly tugging off his gauntlets as he went.

“Raise your arms higher,” he commanded softly when he reached the burglar, and Bilbo obeyed without question. Thorin’s hands ran over Bilbo’s arms, one at a time, carefully searching, and then down his sides. His touch was firm and thorough, as he trailed over Bilbo’s hips and thighs; his touch was steady but invasive, as he turned out the pockets of Bilbo’s trousers.

He didn’t ask about the jacket, lost in a gloomy corner now, apparently satisfied by the way Bilbo had stripped himself, humbled himself, and presented himself for the search.

Having calmed himself for the moment, Thorin stepped back and dropped his hands to his sides, lowered his eyes to the glinting gold beneath them. “You may be a thief, halfling,” he admitted gruffly. “But you are my loyal thief, it would seem.” He drew Bilbo into an embrace, which Bilbo returned somewhat awkwardly, tugging his hands upward to wrap around Thorin’s bulk. Just as Bilbo began to relax into the embrace, however, Thorin stiffened, pulling back to regard the halfling’s face with dark and slanted eyes.

“But if not burglary,” mused Thorin aloud, almost as if he weren’t half-holding Bilbo in his arms at that very moment. “then what could be your purpose here?” He placed a careful hand on Bilbo’s jaw, turning his face left to right and back again, examining it as if it were a cipher to decode or a puzzle to assemble. His fingers stroked up and down Bilbo’s cheeks while Bilbo blushed at his presumptuous touch. “Why so red, halfling?” asked Thorin, his voice somewhere between a hiss and a croon, low in the morning twilight, musical but off-key. “Were you planning to meet someone here?”

Bilbo shook his head no, insofar as he could move it with his jaw in Thorin’s strong grip.

“And yet you blush like some sweet young thing,” continued Thorin. “I had thought, once, to cover you in jewels, to forge you a crown with my own hands.” The hand at Bilbo’s jaw moved lower down, to tug Bilbo’s shirt open and reveal a gleam of mithril. His forefinger stroked over the impossibly delicate, shining links. Thorin’s voice began to rise, a growling song. “I clad you in the most precious metal in the world, and swore to you that this gold was ours. Did you not understand what this meant?”

Bilbo shook his head again. “I am your friend, Thorin,” he insisted. “I have always been your friend, I will always  _be_ your friend.” And yet that was not precisely an answer to Thorin’s question.

“The others—do they dare offer you more gold?” asked Thorin, hysteria transforming growl to wail. “More gold than the king!” He shook his head ruefully, and his arms clasped Bilbo by the shoulders, holding him close and yet at a distance, holding him tight, shaking him as his head shook. He inhaled a deep ragged breath, blown-out eyes focusing with terrifying intensity back on Bilbo’s scarlet face. “I see what the gold does to the others,” he growled again, having recovered the smallest bit of his composure. “They delve through the treasure of my forebears and secret away prizes for themselves. One of them surely hides the Arkenstone from me, to deny me my birthright as king. And now they make promises to my foremost friend, trying to seduce you away from my side!”

With little warning, Thorin dragged Bilbo back up against him, clutching him desperately against his chest. He lowered his forehead to Bilbo’s, and his silver-streaked hair curtained them. “Perhaps you do not know that dwarves love but once,” he exhaled into the little world he had made between them. “Your people are a merry people, but perhaps you are _fickle_ , fast-living little creatures caught by the pleasure of the moment. Ah, and perhaps I am your friend, halfling. Perhaps Bofur is also your _friend_ , and he has sung you a merry song, and promised you a merry dance.” He punctuated his words with a lewd thrust of his hips against Bilbo’s, that his meaning might not be mistaken.

Bilbo shuddered in his arms and struggled, but Thorin held him fast.

“Or perhaps Ori wishes to read you poems from some precious volume,” he offered, and Bilbo tried to pull away again, trying to leverage what he could of his weight against Thorin’s grip, feet slipping on the coins. Bilbo fell to his knees in the attempt, and dragged Thorin down with him, their faces colliding as Thorin dragged Bilbo into a fierce kiss. His beard ground against the halfling’s smooth skin, and his wicked teeth nipped at Bilbo’s lip. His thick, sturdy fingers dug into the soft, yielding fat of Bilbo’s upper arms and the developing muscle beneath it, hard enough to bruise. “Come, Burglar. If it is merry-making you want, you will make merry with me, will you not?” he taunted, pulling away from Bilbo just enough to snap with his teeth at the tip of his round nose, just enough to shift his weight and bend Bilbo back, pushing him down into the piles of gold. “Is a king not enough of a prize for you? Must you dally with the rest of my company as well?”

“Thorin, I’ve not _dallied_ with anyone!” cried Bilbo, who struggled more fiercely now against Thorin’s grip, kicking against the gold beneath him, a move that conveyed his urge to escape, but did nothing to facilitate it, only sent gold coins skittering about. Thorin pressed a knee between Bilbo’s legs, spreading them apart, making it harder for Bilbo to struggle against him. “Nor shall you,” growled Thorin before instigating another punishing kiss, and then another, and another, until Bilbo’s lips felt swollen and cracked beneath his. He pulled away for a second, and Bilbo let out a low, broken moan beneath him. “Thorin, please….” he ground out, when he could form the words. Bilbo’s face was flushed, and his head was turned to the side, his eyes staring into the darkness of the hoard, one burning cheek pressed to the cool metal beneath him. His lips were an even brighter red. 

The brief silence expanded to fill the whole hall, as Thorin kept Bilbo pinned where they lay, as thin streams of fresh sunlight slowly filtered into the hall, making bright spots dance in Thorin’s gaze.

“I have always been your…” ventured Bilbo. “Your… your….”

The single word echoed over the gold in another brief silence.

“...yours,” he finished, finally.

“Mine,” agreed Thorin readily, and it almost seemed as if there were an echo of the dragon in his voice. He claimed Bilbo with his lips again, but this time his kiss was gentle, and in fact, Bilbo lay with uncharacteristic stillness beneath them, no longer protesting his lovemaking. His eyes had fallen shut, and there were dark circles underneath them. He allowed Thorin to undo his bracers and unbutton his shirt, to slide them over the mithril that covered his chest. He uttered only the faintest murmer when Thorin’s thick but agile fingers moved down to the buttons closing his trousers. Thorin took it upon himself to fill the quiet with his low murmuring voice as he worked. “We have understood each other after all, it seems," he began. "Westron is awkward sometimes. A token of my friendship, I called it. _Mudtakrâshu astadê_. My affections. _Umdutê_. My feelings. Perhaps I did not use the right words. But you have understood me. You have always seen my heart, how it yearned for home, and how it yearned for you.”

Bilbo was soon undressed; he turned his face back to Thorin when he was clad only in the mithril mail, and nothing else. “I do see your heart, Thorin,” he said, and for some reason Thorin did not understand, he sounded a little sad as he said it. “I see what you yearn for.” He squeezed his eyes shut tight, but that did not stop a little tear from trickling out the corner of one eye and gliding awkwardly towards his ear. Thorin wiped it away with a tender caress. “I too have wanted to weep,” he confessed, his low voice now a rough whisper, like silk catching on stone. “My heart is full to overflowing, and all that is dear to me is gathered here now, save the Arkenstone….” His eyes went curiously out of focus, remembering the object of his greatest lust. He tore roughly at his own clothes, almost as if he expected the Arkenstone to tumble out of his pockets like a forgotten coin, thus completing his hoard. But no Arkenstone fell from Thorin’s many layers as he divested himself of them, tossing them roughly onto the gold until he knelt before Bilbo naked and pale, spotted, sick, and trembling in the weak sunlight reflected by uncountable golden mirrors.

“All save the Arkenstone,” he repeated, and then he descended on Bilbo, eyes black and blank and open with want, but not for him. He kissed Bilbo everywhere his skin was exposed, running his hands greedily over mithril where it wasn’t, and tugging up the hem to expose his quiescent cock. His Bilbo, so shy now that they had reached their goal, but always beside him, standing by his throne, standing by _him_ as he took his rightful place within Erebor. “You shall never want for anything, not for a single handkerchief, when I have the Arkenstone and my right to rule has been acknowledged by _all_ ,” swore Thorin as he reverenced Bilbo with his lips, murmuring the words against his cock, pledging his troth to the very root of him. “If you have not been faithless Bilbo, if you will give your gifts to no other save me, by Mahal, you will have all the honours the greatest kingdom Middle Earth can bestow upon you.”

He scraped his teeth ever so gently under the head of his beloved’s prick. “But you have not been faithless,” said Thorin, testifying to himself, and Bilbo flinched even as his body responded to Thorin’s caresses. His cock grew, swelled, and Thorin took it in his mouth and sucked it as greedily as he savored any pleasure he allowed himself. As he had stood at Thorin’s throne whilst he raged, so Bilbo lay beneath him whilst pleasure passed over him and through him, as Thorin’s lips coaxed his cock to twitch and tore moans from his throat, whilst Thorin’s own hand slipped between his legs to mirror the caresses he bestowed upon the hobbit. Soon Bilbo’s hips were thrusting upwards into Thorin’s mouth as eagerly as ever he might have, and if he refused to open his eyes, Thorin took no note of it. When he came, he spilled his seed over the gold itself, groaning with pleasure around Bilbo, whose own hips stuttered and fucked up into Thorin’s mouth frantically, almost as if hurrying himself to finish. He was undone when Thorin’s other hand, now free, moved to press the secret spot behind his jewels, coming into Thorin’s mouth with a half-swallowed cry.

Thorin took what Bilbo gave him, savouring the bitter taste on his tongue, and sharing it with his love in a final kiss, soft as gold leaf.

“We cannot linger,” he said finally, gathering up his clothes from the scattered pile around them, and gently pressing Bilbo’s shirt and trousers into his beloved’s hands. “The others will be here any moment, searching for the Arkenstone, whether they are loyal to me or not.” Bilbo nodded and dressed himself quickly. Then he ventured into the darkness, giving Thorin the briefest of glances over his shoulder, as he went to go retrieve his coat.

**Author's Note:**

> As I was writing this I thought, "Why doesn't Bilbo have a clever, sassy way out of this awkward, awkward encounter? Am I writing him horribly out of character?" But then I remembered how in BotFA he mostly just kind of stands there quietly thinking "THORIN NO" while Thorin fucks everything up, and he resorts to the world's most angsty subterfuge in the end, rather than being his usual snappy self. I guess goldsick dwarves don't exactly listen well—so talking becomes pointless. 
> 
> **Neo-Khuzdul Glossary**  
>  _Mudtakrâshu astadê_ = token of my affection/enamourment  
>  _Umdutê_ = my feelings/emotions


End file.
